


Unnatural

by FalseConfidence



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Hand Jobs, John's a jealous idiot, M/M, Miscommunication, No Spoilers, Pre-Canon, Terrible at tagging so more will probably be added, Though I'm so late to the party does anyone need to worry about that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-07-29 13:41:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20083135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalseConfidence/pseuds/FalseConfidence
Summary: John’s lurking when he sees it.Well not lurking so much as crouching in the alleyway between the local saloon and general store, all while peering furiously through the smeared window pane. It ain’t that he’s trying to appear suspect, more like, well… he’s fucking…Lurking.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As always I came into this game way too late and became completely obsessed with the game and had to write something to fill the gap so to speak. If there's any mistakes of timelines please forgive me, I just needed to open the laptop and unload some feelings after finishing :)

John’s lurking when he sees it.

Well not lurking so much as crouching in the alleyway between the local saloon and general store, all while peering furiously through the smeared window pane. It ain’t that he’s trying to appear suspect, more like, well… he’s fucking…

_Lurking._

But it’s from good intentions, in fact John doubts that anyone would tell him off for sneaking into town, late as it is. He’s simply being a good brother as Dutch likes to call it, and if there’s anything that John’s learnt from the man, its that he should protect his family first and foremost. So if Arthur’s leaving camp without telling anyone, going so far as to slip past Hosea still tending the camp fire, then John’s doing the right thing in following to cover his _brothers _back.

Arthur’s been tense for days now, drawn into himself in the way that never spells out violence like the others blustering usually does, instead he just looks sinister. Tall, broad Arthur with his wide stride and large hands, contained by a tether that John’s never quite understood, but he’s seen this _look _in Arthur’s eyes enough times by now that he’s a little bit addicted to it. To knowing that this man’s on his side, that no matter where they end up Arthur Morgan has John Marston’s back. There’s people out there that would kill for that protection and John’s a little - _lot _\- smug about it.

So he does his best to return the favour when he can, not that John can offer much in terms of protection, it’s a laughable thought really, but he tries his best. He takes up the little jobs, cleans their gear, filches cigarettes and coffee grounds to present Arthur whenever he gets back from a larger job with Dutch or Hosea. He’s aware that it’s got to be frustrating for Arthur to still be saddled with sharing a tent with the camp idiot, especially when John’s coming up to twenty and done nothing to earn his own patch. _Don’t want it. _He likes Arthur’s quiet company, the space he leaves for John to fill up with words and complaints and sometimes just his breathing.

They’ve got a routine of sorts between them and John’s determined to keep it that way.

The reason for John’s lurking is really the result of catching Arthur at the perfect moment and a few particular comments he’s collected together. For all of Dutch’s morals and fancy talk, the gang’s the same as any other, all crude words and and the ladies ain’t much better. So John’s been pretty sure that he’s correct in guessing along with the rest that Arthur needed to just find some… _company_… and after keeping one eye on the older man for the last week, he’d finally realised that tonight was the night.

Arthur knows how to disappear, how to drift between the shadows and emerge only as a grim spectre before he fires a bullet into his enemies skulls. In fact John would bet his favourite spurs that the only reason he managed to avoid detection as he trailed far behind the older man, silent even as he mounted his mare amongst the trees, is that he’s spent the better half of his life watching Arthur, breathing when he does, hurting in time with each wound the older man’s taken and trying to tread in those heavy footprints he left behind.

It could also be that Arthur, by his standards, ain’t being that quiet, in fact once he was past the borders of their so called camp John noticed the way he relaxed, shoulders rolling back, glancing around lazily like he didn’t believe that anyone was stupid enough to follow him.

But John’s stupid enough - even though he ain’t - and anyway, if Arthur’s going to make no effort in hiding who he is in a busy saloon then it ain’t only John that should have his head checked. In fact the longer he’s been… not staring, the stranger Arthur’s acting, he’s not accepting any of the offers the whores are throwing at him, shit, he’s been pushing them away if anything. Now John knows that Arthur don’t take up much business at camp unless he has to, but this ain’t camp, there’s some pretty girls in there, and Arthur’s more interested in talking to the dark haired man standing next to him than paying them notice.

That, and he ain’t drinking. Not properly, John’s been tallying it up in his head and he knows Arthur’s a terrible drunk, almost puts John to shame with his behaviour and that’s something else. Arthur’s a few drinks in and he seems settled with that, and it only makes sense if he was on a job. It wouldn’t be the first time that Arthur’s done work for Dutch outside of the camp’s notice, definitely won’t be the last and John’s starting to think that maybe he’s wasted a night crouched in the dark when Arthur tips his drink back, standing to leave and the man’s not two steps behind him.

John, despite his brain for once telling him to be smart, follows.

Follows as Arthur leaves Boadicea, choosing a path out of town, through too many fields, and the whole time watching with twice the care he normally takes. What John can’t understand, as he slinks along at a respectable distance, is why Arthur needs this degree of secrecy, it’s not as if he’s planning to kill the man or if he is then he’s remarkably calm and if there’s one thing John knows it’s that Arthur, _deep down_, isn’t a cold killer.

The answer becomes obvious rather quickly.

Because Arthur… Arthur’s pulling the man around a run-down barn, a hand closing over the collar of his duster and slamming him into the wooden panels behind him and then…

_How, why…_

The man surges forward and starts kissing Arthur urgently, desperately, arms flung around the back of Arthur’s neck and locking them together.

John blinks.

And waits for Arthur to hogtie the man, throw him over the back of Boadicea and take him somewhere dark and silent before he destroys the bastard. John’s mighty tempted to offer a helping hand, even if it’d get him caught, he starts to put together a good excuse when suddenly shit gets real.

The scene before him changes from some slicked up bastard stepping out of line to Arthur closing a hand around the man’s throat, _fucking finally,_ pushing hard so the brunette pulls back. But Arthur follows him and they’re kissing again, the way John’s seen the others do when they think they’re being clever with the cheap girls they have to throw money at for the privilege.

John stumbles backwards, chest roaring and burning like a furnace, he’s making too much noise and it's only drowned out by this sound that Arthur lets out.

John flees.

* * *

_Arthur kissed a man._

John doesn’t get it, at all, and like with most things that he doesn’t understand he goes to the most reliable source he has.

Used to be Dutch, then Hosea, however unlike Arthur who has loyalty ingrained deep into his bones, John’s not so blind. Their stand in fathers are brilliant, there’s no denying that, but John’s been slowly learning for a while that there’s wisdom outside of their narrow camp.

That and the one person he usually turns towards for advice is the very person who’s shaken John's head so vigorously that all of his thoughts are a mess. There’s still an iron hot burn in his stomach that don’t seem in any hurry to shift, and for the first time that he can remember he’s grateful that Arthur took off with Hosea at dawn.

He ends up stealing Abigail away from Miss Grimshaw, under the guise of needing a women’s wiles to scope out a homestead, and it’s not until they’re aimlessly riding out along a quiet track that the former comments.

“This is a nice ride.”

“’Spose so.”

Abigail’s the one he veers towards recently, if only that she’s smart enough to see things in a way that makes sense, manages to frame them the right way for John to understand. Like one of those fancy puzzles, her delicate hands push the pieces together and give him a completed picture.

“You gonna tell me what the problem is?”

“Miss Roberts, you’re about as,” he pauses only for a second to remember the phrase Dutch scolded him with the other morning, “subtle as an O’Driscoll.”

There’s a decidedly unladylike snort that signals she knows that he’s delaying, and it’s why he first liked her. The attitude she normally throws at him, not for any of the other reasons Hosea liked to hint at, no John likes that she can cut through his nonsense and grasp at the real problem with little effort.

“I think,” Abigail ducks under a lower hanging branch and uses the gap to level him a sharp look before continuing, “that you’ve dragged me along so you can start airin’ ya lungs.”

He would scowl at her ability to read him if it wasn’t precisely what he’s just been praising. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re not that stupid John,” Abigail says, “don’t act silly with me.”

The first time she said that to him he’d not known what to reply, unsure of how to handle a person thinking he had some kind of a brain hidden in his head. Especially one so pretty and kind and making it clear, after she’d settled her position in the gang in the way she knew best, that John was going to be her friend whether he liked it or not.

He liked it, still does.

“Ain’t acting silly.” He grunts, feels Old Boy shift as he tenses up under the heavy scrutiny of Abigail’s disbelieving stare.

“What are we doing then?”

Because he’s not ready to answer her yet he tells a half truth. “Checking out a homestead, like I said.”

John’s actually thought it out for once, they ride silently for a good hour until they come across the place he’d noticed a few weeks ago, nothing too big and he’s been saving it up for a day like this when the two of them could come by. All he needs is to know the numbers before he asks Arthur… or one of the others to come by with him to rob the place.

It takes no time for them to set up like usual, John finds the best spot atop one of the ledges overlooking half the valley, shoulders the Springfield that Arthur leaves out for him to borrow for occasions like this, and watches as Abigail does her business.

Dutch would belt him if he knew how the pair of them behaved in moments like this, that John wasn’t standing faithfully beside his __‘_wife_’__. John thinks that this is one of those things that he’s started to learn that Dutch doesn’t get, or he chooses not to.

Abigail was born for the show life, John thought it the first time she did this act, pulling up her horse all flustered, cheeks red and the high, breathy laugh she releases when a trio of men come out to greet her has John flushing even when he knows it's about as false as her misty eyes. It’s the same number of men he’d counted before and while she tells her tale, distracts them, another comes out to join them.

This is always the tense moment, waiting to see what sort of men they’re dealing with, John’s never quite as relaxed about it as Abigail is, and even when the group keep a respectable distance he’s a breath away from pulling the trigger. Muscles pulling taut when the apparent leader goes to help Abigail mount and it’s only when her dappled mare trots away that he slings the rifle over his shoulder.

“Well that was easy.” Abigail calls out to him when they meet at their prearranged spot a half mile away, Old Boy kicking up wide arcs of spray as he canters down the stream and John relaxes only when he’s alongside her.

“Ain’t what I’d call it.”

“You’re a miserable bastard John Marston,” the bite is soothed by the laugh she makes no attempt to hide, “might have something to cheer you up though.”

Her wrist snaps and he barely raises a hand in time to catch the gleaming object, fingers curling back to reveal a small set of keys. “And you’re one hell of a thief Abigail Roberts.”

“That I am.”

It’s only when they’re on their own that John can give her a wide smile and only then can she return it like this. John doesn’t begrudge Dutch’s encouragement but he’s aware of what the older man wants to come about from their friendship, how he thinks John will mature under a women’s hand. The expectations been weighing them down for months now and the only option either of them have had is to starve the fire, at least when they’re in camp.

Not that he doesn’t expect that they’ll have added a whole bunch of fuel with these disappearances, but he needs them, _badly_. So does Abigail he thinks, with the way her face is tilted back eyes closed, trusting her mare to carry her safely, trusting John to choose the right path.

“Abigail,” he starts without meaning to, if only to stop the breathless noise Arthur made from looping in his head any more than it already has, “you ever seen somethin’ strange.”

“Never.”

“Really?” He asks, confusion weighing down on him.

“Why would I, in my kind of work.” She gives him a teasing smile that he refuses to return. “What you thinking of?”

“People behaving…”

“Strange.” Now the teasing is in her voice, and John almost snaps at her, surly when he shouldn’t be and before he can say something he doesn’t mean she continues. “Do you know what half of the men who came to see me wanted?”

_Obvious ain’t it._

She reads the answer on his face and dismisses it. “They wanted to distract themselves, change their behaviour so to speak.”

John thinks he gets it but he really needs her to hand him this answer. “What kinda behaviour.”

“Mostly the unnatural kind,” she’s kind enough to ignore it when he flinches, “or what they’ve been told is unnatural. That’s what most folk used to do, rich or poor, either way they'd try to find an easy women to fuck it out of them.”

It’s the kind of coarse language that she doesn’t use at camp too often but John appreciates her honesty with it now. “And that worked for ‘em?” Not that he can’t imagine Arthur trying it, or he's kept trying it if John remembers the string of girls he’s gone off with over the years.

Abigail considers for a moment, before confirming what John was thinking. “I think it only works if a person wants it to, if they believe it will.”

He hums instead of answering.

“There a reason you want to know?”

The thing about Abigail that John likes is that she chooses who she’s loyal too and there’s nothing suspicious in the way she’s looking at him. He suspects he could tell her most anything and the words wouldn’t ever be breathed again and it’s only that it ain’t his secret to tell that he shakes his head. Challenges her to a race as a distraction and goes so far as to allow her a head start.

One that she doesn’t take and still beats him by a country mile.

* * *

John’s woken up that night by the absence of Arthur, his friend, his brother, and the heavy pressure on his chest that those words bring about. He barely opens his eyes before various events creep to the surface of his thoughts and he’s hearing that fucking noise again, low and thready and entirely Arthur.

_Unnatural_.

Something about the word holds a whole lot of weight, most of them in this camp could hang, Dutch would swing a dozen times over if the law had it's way. Murdering, robbing bastards, all of them, John can’t pretend they’re anything different, never felt the need to. But unnatural, that’s different, no reason for it to be and yet John’s certain that it is. If it wasn’t then why would Arthur hide such… behaviour? Why doesn’t John call him out for it? And why is there this fury, impatiently demanding his attention whenever he thinks of that dark haired bastard getting one of those noises out of Arthur?

It’s still partly dark but the day’s beginning, John can hear Pearson stirring, Miss Grimshaw’s voice starting to rouse the girls and he’s about to block the noise out when the flap of their tent peels back gently, a dark eyed Arthur’s stepping in before letting it fall.

“You awake?”

John grunts because there’s no point in lying to the older man, that and he can see the red stain splashed across Arthur’s waist as he pulls his duster off. It’s enough to have him upright, halfway to reaching out before he hesitates, tucks back against his bedroll. “What happened?”

“Nothing serious.”

Serious is a word that John thinks Arthur could do with learning again, understanding the proper definition of. “You get hit?”

“No,” when he catches sight of John’s disbelieving expression Arthur sighs, “barely touched me, Hosea’s fine if you were wondering.”

John wasn’t and Arthur knows it, if there was anything wrong with, arguably, their favourite parent, then Arthur wouldn’t be here right now.

Arthur’s shucking his shirt up off of his head to change and John's leaning up off of his bedroll when he sees the shallow line where the bullet must have skimmed past him. He hasn’t got time to fixate on the injury, the fact that Arthur was shot at, before the blondes pulling out a tin of something foul smelling that Hosea no doubt concocted and pressing the stuff to his side.

“Dutch needs us to go out hunting, Pearson’s getting low on food again.”

John almost doesn’t bite, at least until he sees the way Arthur’s mouth turns into a thin line, as if he’s in more pain than he’s letting on. “Does Dutch know you were shot?”

“Told you I ain’t been shot Marston.”

Which John knows by now means: 'No John I ain’t told Dutch because I’m idiot'.

Or something along those lines.

“Well I ain’t getting up this damn early, so you can go on you’re own or wait.” He puts sufficient energy into a fairly convincing scowl even when they both know that it’d take a few words and John would follow Arthur anywhere, but they also both know that it’s merely an excuse the latter needs.

Arthur sighs heavily, mutters something about John’s laziness before he finally lies down on his bedroll, wincing only now that he thinks nobody’s around to see it, apart from John. He’s letting John see the wounded side of him, always has come to think of it and the realisation settles over his frame in a way that sinks into every breath and thought, has him hearing the _buh-bum_ of his heart so loudly that it’s overwhelming.

“Noon.” Arthur mutters, sleep dragging him in already.

“Noon.” John lies, sleep dancing out of his reach.

It’s worth the chastisement he gets when the older man wakes up that evening, the lazy swipe to his head and the not-smile Arthur grants him as they ride out together.


	2. Chapter 2

John realises that he may care for Arthur in ways that aren’t strictly brotherly around about the same time as he’s throwing himself on top of the blonde as gunfire echoes around them.

“Fuck sake John.” The older man growls, ignoring the bullet that would have undoubtedly gone through his head. An injury John is mostly sure even Arthur Morgan can’t walk off.

But he keeps that to himself as there’s more pressing matters at hand, O’Driscoll’s that need killing for example. Which is a job that he’d do happily without the comfort of knowing it would make Arthur safe. So he’s a little reckless as he peers over the upturned wagon that’d blown up in their path before firing, repeats this over and over again until between the pair of them he’s certain they’re clear.

“How the fuck,” John says as he pokes through the satchel of a dead man, “does Colm O’Driscoll have so many men?”

Arthur’s the one that insists on doing this, checking every damn body, moving them off of the main road so that even though they can see there’s nobody for miles, there’s not a witness to their crimes.

Looting bodies is a dirty business in John’s opinion but when it’s filled their pockets better than some of the stagecoaches they’ve robbed he cannot rightly complain.

“’Spose bad men follow even badder men.”

John would have pointed out how ridiculous that is, how they’re all bad men and how he’d like for someone to point him out a good man, he’d do all of that if it wasn’t for a familiar click not a few feet away.

If there was a way to die then doing so in front of half a dozen O’Driscoll’s that must have laid out a trap behind a trap, is not the one he would have chosen. His guns within reach but he’s not going to be quick enough, rage bubbles up to the surface, he’s going to be shot like a dog while looting a dead fucking body.

“Marston what you taking so long for?”

He can see the delight spreading through the O’Driscoll holding the gun up to him, the bastard knows who they are, probably thinks he’s going to kill both of them in one go. Well he’ll get John, but Arthur, he can escape, John almost goes to shout it out as the older man comes into view, takes everything in with a slow exhalation.

Arthur stops.

Arthur grins.

It’s all teeth and edges, eyes sparking with a danger that has John’s breath stilling.

Then Arthur’s moving with a speed that John’s never seen before, he really is a shadow, gun somehow in it’s holster but then it’s also in his hand. A spray of blood coats the dirt at John’s feet in the same second he hears the first bullet, by the time he’s rolled to the side five more have sounded.

It’s like he’s crawling to keep up and he’s not even on his feet when the last O’Driscoll drops, six bodies, half with guns still holstered.

“Can’t leave you alone for a damn minute.”

He’s still staring at the pools of blood that rightly should include John’s when Arthur’s grabbing his arm, head turned away as he half drags John to their horses and John’s sat up on Old Boy before his brain kicks in.

“We didn’t check their-”

“Shut up Marston.”

Before he can say another word Arthur cuffs him halfheartedly around the back of the head and John catches a sight of his hand as it pulls back, notices not for the first time how large it is.

“Well wasn’t that something.”

“Most folks would say thank you.”

“Thanks,” which is a fair thing to expect, though he can’t help but adding, “least I know you care enough to keep me around.”

He laughs if only to stomp out the terrifying fact that he should be dead right now. It’s when he looks up and sees that Arthur’s expressions dark that he realises he’s hit something sore, a wound that shouldn’t be prodded at that John’s unintentionally taken a hammer to.

John’s pulse jumps in his neck and he also realises that he never wants Arthur look like that because of him ever again.

* * *

Bill Williamson is a mean spirited, callous, nasty son of a bitch.

But he drinks hard and doesn’t mind sharing the whiskey he collects better than he does money.

So John sits beside him for the better part of the evening, swilling back bottle after bottle until most of the camps quiet, save a few guards and he’s swaying back and forth to try and counter the way the world’s pitching under his bare feet.

_Where the fuck are my boots?_

He doubts that he’d be this stupid if it weren’t for Arthur, or Dutch, or Hosea, or the bank job they had to scope out, or that they’ve been gone for almost a week now and unease has taken a permanent spot in his gut.

How many men are going to get Arthur’s noises?

The questions grown claws and dug it’s way into his skin, demanded to be felt every time he tries to pretend he doesn’t care, every time someone smiles just so and Arthur notices. It’s everywhere and John’s starting to fucking hate it.

He’s in the middle of half listening to Bill crow on about a stagecoach and half trying to work out how he’s ended in this position by the time the trio return. His mood doesn’t improve when Arthur looks amused more than put out when John tells him to _fuck off _instead of _I missed you _as the older man firmly slots himself between John and Bill.

His source of alcohols finished for the night then.

But he’s gained a valuable rock to lean against. Not that Arthur’s a rock. He’s just firm and strong and broad and John’s going to lean against him... like he’s a rock.

“One of these days somebody’s going to put you in your place Johnny.”

_How many men Arthur?_

He’s drunk, drunker than Dutch would normally allow, so much so that for a brief, swaying moment he forgets that the world has colour in it, grey and patches of amber swirling until he blinks rapidly.

The grounds a lot further away than John remembers it being and he doesn’t remember growing no more. Manages to swing a hand up to rub at his face and realises he’s thrown over a shoulder, a sack being carried into a tent he’s mostly sure is his.

“Leave you alone for a damn week and you’re following after Williamson like a loyal dog.”

It’s harsh and John’s sure that if the nausea wasn’t rising in his belly he’d refute it, however the voice speaking sounds terribly fond and he’s being lowered onto his bedroll far gentler than he’s seen Arthur drop people before. A hands cupping the back of his head so he doesn’t smack it, a blanket being wrapped tight enough his loose limbs are contained and there’s a disconnect between his head and his mouth so when Arthur pulls away John actually voices his displeasure with a low whine.

John wants to point out that if he follows anyone like a dog then it’s Arthur. He’s loyal to Arthur, always has been and unfortunately will probably always be.

Not that he’s a dog.

And why does Arthur keep leaving John?

He tells Arthur these thoughts as they seem important.

The last thing he hears before he finally passes out is a sharp inhalation that sounds heated and heavy. John’s going to curse him out for it in the morning because he now has another fucking noise that’s stuck with him.

* * *

“You need to stop leading that poor girl on son.”

John doesn’t want to be here and it startles him a little to realise that. He used to prioritise his spot here on the crate opposite Dutch, pride of place in his tent at the centre of camp, as the most valuable one he could have. There isn’t a time he can point to and say ‘that’s the one’ for how he’s grown to resent these moments, the summons that should have him puffing up, his standing in the gang made clear for those that are too new to understand.

Now he just wishes that it would all hurry up so he can finish moving the bales of hay before Arthur tries to take on another fucking task when he wakes up. Sometimes John thinks that the blonde hasn’t an idea of how much work he is to watch out for, how he pushes John’s admittedly short temper by just being himself.

“Sorry Dutch, I’ll leave her alone.”

“Now let’s not be too hasty.”

What did they use to talk about during these moments, was it always John listening with the sort of rapt idolisation that inspired the crusades Dutch used to lecture him on. Now it’s never lessons, maybe they were abandoned when Dutch decided that he wasn’t going to be a thinker like him. John doesn’t know why but he hasn’t admitted that the words and learnings sank in, he just never cares to pull them from his brain and use them.

Maybe he’s naturally spiteful. Wouldn’t be a surprise.

“What’s gotten into you son?” Dutch asks, placing the letters he’s been sorting through, back atop his table and turning a _concerned _eye towards John. “Turning a fine girl away like that.”

Of course Dutch would know she’s fine, he’s - to use his words - had her, Bill’s had her, the whole camps had her. Not that John has a thing against Abigail’s life, her decisions are hers and he has no say on that.… and then he understands it.

_Fuck_.

He expected most of the men in the camp to take the offer of a pretty girl up without the slightest bit of hesitation. But Dutch, something about his father taking the hand of a girl younger than John and leading her into his tent turned something sour in his head that hasn’t been able to return to normal.

He knows that she’s slowed down on things like that, realising she doesn’t have to unless she wants to, at least after Miss Grimshaw told her as much. John remembers her explaining this to him not long before Dutch started looking at them with expectations and implying things he had no damn business implying.

_“If I charge them, get something out of it, then it don’t matter if I really want it or not John. I have the control and they can’t take it from me.”_

For a brief moment he truly hates Dutch.

Then it’s gone.

He loves Dutch, always will.

But John decides that the next time he goes into town he’s buying Abigail her own gun.

“-You listening to me son?”

“Yeah.”

Dutch levels him with a look that’s mostly disappointment and John manages not to squirm in his seat, unable to stop his brain telling him he’s failed even though he’s done nothing of the sort.

“I’ll speak with Abigail.” John promises, if only that it’ll get him out of here quicker and he can see a familiar form emerging from their tent.

He meant it in an offhand manner but the knowing smile, lazy and arrogant, Dutch gives him has John realising how the older man takes it. “It’ll do both of you good.”

_‘don’t matter if I really want it or not John’_

He’s filled for a sliver of a second with this irrational need to punch their leader.

Not that he would, because he loves Dutch.

And he isn’t in the mood to die today.

Apparently however, when Hosea tries to talk with him when he storms away from the tent, he is in the mood to make himself look a fool.

Arthur likes nothing more than to tell John that he’s Dutch’s _golden boy _and that might be true, John doesn’t care. Hosea though, despite how he’ll say he loves them both equal, it’s clear enough to John who the man favours more. It’s one of the few things that he holds against Arthur, hates him a little bit for, because Hosea is everything that John wants to be, tries to be, and fails if only that his blood runs on fire and anger where Hosea’s is cool and wise.

There’s still no explanation for why he challenges Hosea to a game of five finger fillet.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea John.”

He wants to do it all the more.

“Shut up old man.”

It’s a terrible idea.

One that shows the clear divide between the newer, temporary, members of the gang and the old hands, all of which are staring at John like he’s fucking idiot. Which he is. Miss Grimshaw’s distinctive sound of displeasure echoes in his ears and if it wasn’t the growing audience John would back down immediately. Pride and a stubborn, bullish insistence that he stands by his decision makes him draw out the chair and slump down opposite his favourite father.

Hosea palms the knife easily and if it wasn’t that John’s about to be humiliated then he’d admire the way that the blade turns silver as it flashes in the sunlight, blurring as the older man’s hand moves, whip fast and sure and John can only stare in silent admiration. Were they alone he might ask to be shown the twirl Hosea finishes with a showman’s flourish, but they aren’t and he can hear the laughter from around them and even Hosea’s kind smile can’t stop the flush sinking down the back of his neck.

How many rounds did Hosea manage, he isn’t sure, doubts anyone could keep count he’s that fast and John’s preparing to lose at best a finger, at worst the respect of those watching.

_“Marston.”_

If there’s a voice that can cut through the camp it’s Arthur Morgan’s. Loud and furious in a way that has no impact to John when he’s heard the real, quiet rage the blonde’s capable of.

“Told you we was going to that homestead you kept hollering about.”

He’s got the bunch of keys from John’s satchel in his hand, must of gone looking for them to make this point before he came out out here.

_What are you doing?_

It’s when Arthur scowls at the new men that John understands. It’s okay for family to laugh at John, their small ring of family is safe, the rest however are not welcome to.

John’s heart starts the ridiculous _buh-bum _rhythm again.

Doesn't stop when he’s cuffed around the back of the head, shoved towards their tent to grab his rifle and Arthur’s intimidating frame as he draws himself tall is stopping the disgruntled audience from complaining while he apologises to Hosea.

_Buh-bum._

He can’t shake it out by the time he’s cantering leisurely at the pace Arthur sets, he’s a half stride behind like usual and John has this suspicion that the heat drawing over his body is something he knows the name of but can’t bring himself to voice.

“I could have won that.” He says instead.

Arthur’s laughter is always welcome.

* * *

John does talk to Abigail, just about something different than what he expects Dutch originally wanted.

He regrets it fucking immediately.

“So how does it work?”

“Making a man happy?”

“Yeah.”

“I can show you.”

She gets as far as crouching down right there behind one of the wagons and John’s redder than he’s ever been in his life, back of his neck on fire, and it’s not an unkind laugh that she gives when he stumbles back. Nor is it unkind when she grabs his arm, links them comfortably and announces to the camp that they’re getting supplies.

Arthur’s looking at him funny as they leave and John wants to tell him that he’s trying to find out ways to make him happy, though he suspects that’ll end up with half the camp poking their bloody noses in. Or he’ll end up with a bloody nose, either way he’s not in the mood for it.

The homestead was a good call, the take large enough that after the camps share he’s not going to be short for a while, and despite their best protests Abigail refused to take the share both Arthur and John tried to push at her. Wouldn’t listen to either of them when they insisted her help allowed them to sneak in without firing a single bullet.

So John’s going to buy her a gun, because he’s petty in this way.

And…

_‘don’t matter if I want it or not John’_

There’s been a thing recently where certain thoughts keep spinning around in his head and he’s struggling to bury them deep enough that they don’t drag him down. At least during the ride Abigail gives him more details than he thinks is needed for his original question, but he’s grateful, tells her whilst they stand in the gun store fitting out a ladies pistol that he slams the money down for quicker than she can object.

“Sometimes Marston, I think you have a heart in there.”

And no matter how much he scoffs at her, Abigail keeps saying so until he almost believes it.

* * *

There’s a time when John would be on his horse and half way out of camp at the mere suggestion of going anywhere with Arthur. But today, with Dutch lecturing them about scoping out a job that he’s sure will give them a big hit, John decides that he’d rather take guard duty for a week if it meant he wasn’t going to be left alone with the man that’s been frustrating the ever loving shit out of him.

But he’s got no other option than to get on with it, even when he’s determined to take the longest amount of time possible as he drags his feet through packing. That’s also taken away from him as Arthur leads both their horses to the edge of camp, tacked and ready to go, an easy smile directed straight at John.

_Buh-bum._

John shoulders past him, mounts and takes off without waiting for Arthur to catch up.

Although he does, easily.

Rides past and then John’s following, always a half stride behind and he’s never felt stifled by that shadow until now. But even though their pace is slow and Arthur never once looks back at him, John doesn’t move.

He’s good, quiet, sets camp for the first two nights without a single complaint, ready and waiting at the first scrap of light in the sky. John tacks up, he tears down camp, goes where he’s pointed and nods when spoken to, if anything Dutch would be proud of this grown up John.

But it comes to a head on the third night.

The first problem, John thinks on it as they enter the saloon, is he can’t stop thinking about Arthur. His smile, the angle of his jaw as he turns his head, the glint of his eyes in the dark, all of it’s too much and John’s at a loss of what to do with these images.

The second problem is that now John knows what to look for, he can see it, everywhere. The face someone makes when they’re interested, and if there’s a prize in this shithole, then it’s Arthur Morgan. That and John’s recognising it because he’s one of those admiring bastards with eyes that light up when they see Arthur.

He hates it.

Hates that Arthur doesn’t look at him like that.

So he leaves the older man to his drinking, forgets that he’s meant to be listening for information and disappears out back, only good for keeping the horses company with his dark mood. He has the brain to bring his drink with him, allowing the bitterness to coat his tongue as he orders himself to get his fucking shit together.

“You ain’t going to find the pretty girls hiding out here.” Arthur says, clutching a glass that reflects amber in the lights darting through the door he’s left ajar when he finally comes to find John.

Pretty girls. Fine Girls. Abigail. Dutch…

_Shit_.

He might be losing it, that’s the only explanation for these loops that draw his attention from one extreme to the other, he’s turning paranoid and unnatural and the whole thing has him burying it deeper, the concerns can’t help him now.

John almost doesn’t reply, he’s getting good at this keeping quiet business, but then Arthur’s settling down beside where John’s sat on the railing of the deck, feet dangling above the remains of some trampled grass patch. “Don’t want them.”

“’Spect you wouldn’t have to pay them.”

“Then you have ‘em.”

Arthur won’t, he’s never much been one for paying for something he can get easy and John realises that it’s because he’s not _just _looking for ‘pretty girls’.

_Stop it._

“What’s wrong with you Johnny?”

It’s the casual way Arthur says his name, the confusion, that he might really be going crazy that has John snapping back. “Got better to do than watch you actin’ _unnatural_.”

Arthur ain’t dumb, not like John, and it’s obvious when he gets it, the lazy smile on his face hardening and it can’t ever be said that John Marston thinks things through. Dutch tells him that he ain’t ever understood consequences for his actions and this seems like one of those moments that John’s on the same page as the old man.

He doesn’t run, he’s not a coward.

But it seems suddenly important that somebody goes back to their temporary camp to check on it and John’s already leapt to his feet, mounted and turning his horse before Arthur can reply to him.

The problem with this plan, and it should’a been obvious, is that John isn’t the best horseman, not at all, he’s good enough but that’s it, just good. Not brilliant. So it shouldn’t surprise him that Arthur’s waiting for him at camp, left late and still beat him, and John’s mood darkens further, if that’s possible.

“Want to explain what the hell you mean Marston.”

It’s no question or Arthur isn’t expecting an answer if the way his voice comes out cold and John realises that this is what he’s needed. A fight, a real one, with someone that knows not to pull their punches, so he leaves Old Boy still tacked and strides over so that when Arthur explodes John can be close enough to splinter.

“Exactly what I said Morgan. Only need to see it once to put it together.” That and a few hints from a friend but Arthur doesn’t have to know that.

His words strike hard and he almost relents at the dark colour spreading over Arthur’s skin. “It ain’t nobody’s business.”

He smirks only that it feels damn good to be in control for once, to have this over Arthur when, unwittingly, Arthur’s been haunting John’s life for too long. Talking too much is where he always fails, this time he goes low and harsh, never mind that he would take Arthur’s secrets to his grave.

But right now he really needs Arthur to hit him, leans closer so he can see it register in the older man’s eyes.

“I bet Dutch won’t see it that way-”

John cuts off simply because there’s a cold line against his neck, a bite that catches when he inhales and he wants to swallow but all of the moisture wicks out of his mouth when Arthur slowly sweeps a disapproving look over him.

Arthur’s holding his skinning knife to John’s throat and his cock hardens so quickly that he’s dizzy with it.

Cool eyes greet his still plastered on smirk and John can feel the disapproval, wants to apologise for being a shit, but because he’s a shit -- or because of the heat pooling at the base of his spine-- he bares his teeth in a mocking manner and presses forward until he can feel the cold burn that bites deep until the skin breaks.

Arthur’s hand drops instantly.

_Coward._

_Good._

“Will you grow up-”

John belts him.

Fuckin’ hard for someone that can feel blood beading along his neck.

Now John knows, realistically, that there’s no way to win this confrontation that he begins. Arthur’s always been the enforcer for many reasons, but the ability to drop pretty much anyone that irritates him is definitely a top one.

So it surprises neither of them when he’s slammed to the ground, wrists restrained in a bruising grip and Arthur doesn’t have the common fucking decency to pretend that he’s out of breath as he looms over John, weight pinning him down. The only victory he can claim is that there’s a thin trickle of blood by Arthur’s hairline that ruins the scowl he’s going for. Though John can’t see where it’s from, his eyes narrowing until he realises that it’s his blood smeared along Arthur’s skin.

_Never mind._

“What the hell’s gotten into you Marston.” Arthur seethes, and despite the way John angles his hips, pushes back until he can feel the imprint of the ground pressing through his coat, all of this and it’s not enough to hide the fact that he’s hard as a fucking rock.

He can see the precise moment Arthur realises it, the moment his anger bleeds out and he huffs a quiet “huh.”

_Huh?_

What the fuck does that mean, John snarls until Arthur’s weight presses down purposefully and John’s head goes hazy for a split second. “So this is what’s got you all riled up?”

This is where John wants to lash out again, because it’s not fucking right that Arthur’s got this mastery over his temper, that he probably wasn’t really angry in the first place. Where John really was gunning for him, Arthur probably barely dipped into that distant place he goes to when they get into a gunfight.

_Bastard._

“Get the fuck off me.” He spits, face on fire before ignoring the obvious between them and trying to buck Arthur off, twisting his wrists and using every trick that Dutch taught him over the years. Throws all of the weight of those emotions into it as well because they might as well be fuel for all of the good they’ve been doing him.

Arthur Morgan is a heavy shit, in the way that he doesn’t move a damn inch, mouth quirking at the corners as if he’s completely entertained by this pitiful display John’s putting on for him. Doesn’t try to hide the amusement in his voice as he asks, “are you done?”

John thinks that they’d probably be here a lot longer if he hadn’t tried to do the dirty when Arthur lets up a little, his knee drawing up into the space gifted to him to try and finally heft the older man off of him. But Arthur being Arthur, is as always a step ahead of him, his free hand moves to span John’s throat, thumb tucking under the hinge of his jaw and it’s with a teasing squeeze that John finally gives in.

“We going to talk now?”

“Nothing to talk about.”

He can’t stand it, unable to move away, unable to look away when Arthur holds him so easily still and it shouldn’t have him burning but it does and he fucking knows it and Arthur fucking knows it.

“Gonna tell me why you been watching me Johnny?”

_Don’t._

Don’t call him that while they’re like this, John almost begs and it draws him short, furious at himself for such a weakness.

“Was an accident.”

Arthur looks disappointed in his lie. “And this?”

He almost acts stupid, stopping at the thought that Arthur might press against him again. “Accident.”

“Really?”

Arthur’s smug, puffed up and proud of himself and John can’t fucking stand it, not when his skin feels alight from the barest of Arthur’s skin touching his.

Before John can ruin anything by speaking, and really because he’s all-or-nothing recently, he rocks upwards and mashes their mouths together. There’s a pause where he’s completely at a loss, certain that this isn’t good, kissing purely out of frustration, all teeth and dry lips. Not that he’s got that much experience to compare with but he’s pretty fucking sure that it isn’t meant to be this bad.

His eyes are still open to he catches the moment that Arthur’s roll, before the hand at his throat moves, sliding around and into his hair, fingers shifting through the wild strands and then, abruptly, they pull, hard.

_Huh_.

The words catching.

Heat pounds through John’s body so quickly that it leaves his fingertips numb, his hips buck and this time he can feel Arthur’s cock half hard pressing back and it somehow knocks the breath from his lungs in a way that getting hit never quite managed. Not that any of that mattered when Arthur’s mouth was on his, hard and possessive, and when a needy sound escapes his mouth John catches the taste of Arthur’s tongue and that hazy sensation throttles him, pulls a moan from somewhere deep in his throat.

Arthur is unnatural not in that way, but in the way that somehow John’s clothes mostly come off without him knowing much about it, jolting when he realises that there’s bare skin against his. “I ain’t gonna fuck you.”

It’s a warning and John doesn’t heed it if only that he doesn’t care about much apart from Arthur’s teeth as they sink into his throat, or the hands bruising his skin with the right amount of pressure that has him bucking against Arthur for a different reason than before. There’s nothing new about Arthur’s body, seen it enough times over the years that John doesn’t think he should delight in feeling it, the ridges of old scars and firm muscles and a fucking heartbeat that’s crashing against John’s palm.

Arthur leads and he follows, how it’s always been between them and John shouldn’t be surprised that he ends up nodding at Arthur’s silent question, holding off a noise when the older man pulls away long enough to peel off the last of their clothes and grab something from his satchel.

Then there’s gun oil on fingers that John’s starting to become obsessed with and Arthur smirks, leaning back down so his weight anchors John into the ground, solid and unyielding, tracing around his entrance experimentally and then working one of those damn fingers into him without a single pause.

Electric bolts through John’s body and he almost pushes away from it, this strange, foreign feeling that has his muscles locking down and his lungs bellowing. He near taps out there, but he’s never given up because something hurts and now isn’t the time he begins, not when there’s a heavy heat settling over him, already easing the ache.

Arthur’s pushing his leg higher, giving himself enough room to add another finger and the friction’s searing at first, sharp and intense and John’s jaw is stiff as he clenches against the intrusion. But then slowly, after each deliberate thrust, there’s something that has his toes curling and he’s just coming to the point where everything’s becoming easy when Arthur gets this look as if he’s searching and John doesn’t have time to work out exactly what it is.

White-hot fire shoots up his spine as Arthur curls his fingers, the tip of one clipping this spot inside John that has him moaning high in chest and he can’t keep it there. Not when Arthur meets his bleary gaze and grins. Fucking grins, wolf-like and amused by whatever the hell John looks like right now, he can’t be caustic though, not when Arthur’s so calmly sending his body into these violent shivers with such ease.

John doesn’t want to, will furiously deny it later on, but he ends up clinging to the arm pressing down against his waist, holding him steady and still, can’t hear much around the violent _buh-bum _pounding in his ears, he can feel it ricocheting around his body for fuck sake.

“This is it,” Arthur warns, as if he hasn’t made that stance clear earlier, but this time he sounds _affected_, “I’m not gonna fuck you John.”

John almost loses it at him then, what else can he do when he can feel Arthur’s fingers curling and pressing and demanding something from him that John didn’t know he could give, and Arthur’s saying he won’t give him everything.

But Arthur knows, because he knows John so fucking well, knows all of the cracks and fissures that he’s unintentionally filled up over the years and now expertly touches. “Not now-”

“-Don’t you fuckin’ say when I’m older.” John’s almost impressed with himself that it comes out smooth - definitely not thready and breathless and weak.

Arthur laughs, low and rough, wraps a wet hand around John’s dick and John goes off, like a river that’s been dammed for too long and burst it’s banks, that roaring of his heart almost deafening him. He can’t pay attention to whatever the fucks coming out of his mouth because Arthur doesn’t let up, relentless until John’s finishes making a mess of himself, panting and boneless.

He takes a moment to realise that Arthur’s hovering over him, fingers still moving and it’s almost too much, John’s skin prickles with each slow drag. The first thought that clicks in his brain is that he needs to do this to Arthur, _now_, but this isn’t what the older man has in mind, if anything Arthur’s got that arrogant curl to his mouth and John can’t refute that he deserves it.

“Don’t try and argue with me Johnny.” Arthur’s stroking himself now, with a hand covered in John’s slick, as if it’s fair that he gets to be the only one to touch himself. “You’re not ready.”

John’s building up to a furious argument anyway, very fucking slowly considering his legs still feel like they’re twitching, and Arthur cuts him off before he can get as far as to lean up onto his elbows.

“Don’t believe me?”

He should shut his mouth, stop his shaking head, but John’s an idiot and Arthur knows this, so it’s no surprise when Arthur raises a single brow, presses him back down and John doesn’t get it until he can feel Arthur’s cock. Feel him stroking in a fast, irregular pace, and with his free hand he’s pressing against John’s asshole again. Wandering fingertips pressing against the heated rim and John suddenly realises that maybe, just maybe, Arthur was right, he’s not ready.

He’s about to say this, hands rising to grip at Arthur’s tense shoulders, when Arthur’s thumb presses against John’s rim, holding him open just enough that John shivers uncontrollably, pressing the head of his cock right there and -- _Oh fuck._

Arthur’s coming inside of him and John -- he’ll never live it down -- passes out a moment. Even worse he’s bought back by two fingers lazily sliding in and out, pressing Arthur’s come back inside of him and it’s enough his dick valiantly twitches.

* * *

There’s few times that John will resign himself to bathing, not that he has a thing against being clean, more that they’re never close enough to a town that he can use a proper tub. The river itself is a place that he avoids with a terror born from desperation and pain and a life that he left behind years ago.

But...

Arthur’s there.

So John stands knee deep and scrubs his skin until he’s passes muster, retreats when Arthur looks like he might drag him deeper, finally surrenders to letting the icy water touch his waist only when said waist is clamped firmly between Arthur’s hands.

John’s starting to understand that appeal of photography, the need to capture moments of beauty so they’ll live forever. He can also see the appeal of imprinting them in his brain so nobody else will get to see this. He’s aware that he should be talking, putting things into words to give Arthur, but they don’t want to form and the silence is comfortable.

Later when Arthur’s stretched out on his bedroll, cigarette in hand and this smug grin on his face, John knows what’s about to come out of his mouth and he would refute it, really he would. But the sight of those fingers keep him on edge, shuddering and overwhelmed, so he can’t put anything more out than a half assed scowl when Arthur promises.

“When you’re older John.”

_Bastard._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading :)

**Author's Note:**

> This is only in two parts because I'm terrible at moderating how much I write and I didn't want to have it seem too long or unwieldy but the other parts done and just needs editing so will be up soon :)
> 
> Also this fic isn't ot3 but I'm rolling in the feels between Arthur, John and Abigail at the moment so that's probably going to have to come out at some point.


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